


Of Starlight and Bad Fashion

by candiedrobot



Series: Optimists of the Most Dangerous Size [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (Bard just wants to fuck), Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Attempt at Humor, Blow Jobs, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, M/M, Masturbation, Mostly porn, Romance, Strip Tease, Thranduil plays dress-up, Voyeurism, fashion diva Thranduil, long-suffering Bard, playful banter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-09
Updated: 2015-02-09
Packaged: 2018-03-11 06:15:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3317219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/candiedrobot/pseuds/candiedrobot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“A king should not wear clothing made for a bargeman.  You are the ruler of a great people now, and my lover besides.  I would see you in naught but sapphires and emeralds, gold and silver draped from your glistening body, reflecting the light of the stars as they shine through the trees here within my realm.”  Bard closed his eyes, swallowed hard.  “But, seeing as I cannot hold you hostage here forever while your men are without the guidance of their king, I will simply request that you fit yourself with more appropriate attire and do not wear that which is made for vegetables and bargemen.”</p><p>In which Thranduil does not approve of Bard's fashion choices, and all attempt at humour quickly dissolves into porn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Starlight and Bad Fashion

**Author's Note:**

> First Barduil fic- I regret nothing
> 
> Elvish translations at the bottom, though it's only really endearments and the like and Bard doesn't understand much of it either.
> 
> candiedrobot.tumblr.com (come poke me with things)

“Are you wearing a burlap sack?”

Bard blinked. He took in Thranduil’s casual demeanour, the way he lounged in his chair like a bored cat, limbs sprawled and robes draped luxuriously and decadently across him, shimmering like pale jewels in the firelight. One eyebrow was raised and he stared at Bard with an intensity that didn’t quite seem to match the question he asked him.

“I- no, what,” Bard said, tilting his head and furrowing his brows at Thranduil. Was he wearing a burlap… What on earth was this daft king talking about now?

Thranduil rolled his eyes and begun again, speaking in a slow, patronising drawl, “Are you, Bard King of Dale, wearing, a burlap. Sack. Honestly, pay attention, Bard. You should know how I loathe repeating myself.”

Bard narrowed his eyes at him. “What are you talking about? No, I’m not wearing a burlap sack, this is my tunic.” He rubbed the edge of his shirt in one hand, raising the corner as if to show the Elvenking that no, this was a regular shirt he was wearing, and it was comfortable, and worn, yes, but very much _not_ burlap and not a sack.

“Yes,” Thranduil agreed, “but was your tunic ever once used to transport potatoes?” Bard scoffed. “I’m quite serious,” he continued. “I’m actually trying rather hard not to be offended that you, a king, would wear such a thing in my presence, or in fact, in anyone’s at all.”

“Honestly,” Bard said, shaking his head at the elf. “Always the dramatics, with you. I have had this tunic for years. It is quite heavy, and it keeps the water from the rain and from the lake, and the bitter cold as well, at bay. It is comfortable. It was made for a bargeman, _not,_ for potatoes,” he ended with finality.

Thranduil regarded him for several long moments, watching him with a look that Bard couldn’t quite decipher. Not that he could discern most of Thranduil’s emotions, when he looked at him like that, eyes sharp and seeming to pierce straight through him. He would have thought that Thranduil would stop doing this so much, now that they were lovers, but it only seemed to happen more and more often, and then Thranduil would look away and move on, as if nothing at all had happened, as if he had not, just then, been studying Bard like there was some great meaning to pick from his soul. Bard crossed his arms and frowned at him.

Finally, Thranduil seemed to reach some kind of conclusion, for he stood with a flourish, drawing his robes to himself and turning away from Bard. “Take it off,” he said dismissively.

Bard gave him a look of incredulous disdain, which of course, Thranduil did not see, his back still turned as he took several steps further into his rooms. “I’m sorry,” Bard said, “What?”

“You heard me. Remove the potato sack. You are in the Halls of Eryn Galen, in the presence of the Elvenking, and it _offends me.”_

Bard rolled his eyes and scoffed, but did as he was asked anyway, untying the belt around his waist and lifting the _offensive_ article over his chest and stomach. He paused when he noticed that those stormy eyes were back on him, watching him with the quiet intensity of a brewing storm. He couldn’t help the smirk that crept across his face and he deliberately slowed his actions, putting on a show.

He broke eye contact as he pulled the tunic over his head, and when he held it, free, in his hands, he blinked at the empty room before him. Thranduil had vanished. “Where-”

“I’d like you to try this on.”

The voice came from directly behind him and Bard visibly startled, then cursed himself for jumping. “By the- Thranduil, I have asked you to stop doing that, have I not?” He began to turn, but a cool hand on his hip stopped him, as well as the heavier brush of fabric. Hot breath ghosted across his neck as Thranduil leaned down and laughed softly against his ear.

“But I do so enjoy catching you off guard. It has become one of my favourite pastimes.” Bard scoffed, but found a chill sweeping over him at Thranduil’s sudden proximity, at his words and the caress of his breath and his laughter. Thranduil straightened. “Lift your arms for me.”

Bard swallowed. He tried to hold on the indignation he had felt earlier, but his good senses seemed to desert him the moment Thranduil was near like this. “Honestly,” he murmured again. He tried to weave exasperation into his voice, but he was rather sure it sounded far more affectionate than he intended.

He lifted his arms obediently.

The garment placed over them was soft on the inside, lined with some decadently comfortable fleece or suede. Thranduil drew it down over his wrists carefully, allowing the gentle slide of sleeves down the finely toned lines of his biceps to be a sensual caress. He felt Thranduil step closer again, lean down to breathe against the side of his face. His breath faltered.

“A king should not wear clothing made for a _bargeman._ You are the ruler of a great people now, and my lover besides. I would see you in naught but sapphires and emeralds, gold and silver draped from your glistening body, reflecting the light of the stars as they shine through the trees here within my realm.” Bard closed his eyes, swallowed hard. “But, seeing as I cannot hold you hostage here forever while your men are without the guidance of their king, I will simply request that you fit yourself with more appropriate attire and do not wear that which is made for _vegetables and bargemen.”_

“And if I wish to wear nothing at all…?” He leaned back into Thranduil, taking his wrists in his hands and wrapping them around his waist as the tunic settled snug but comfortable around his frame. He tilted his head to the side and nipped at Thranduil’s jaw, playfulness and arousal stealing from him any irritation that may have remained.

Thranduil made a low noise, contentment and lust, and it wound through Bard, settling low and hot in his belly. “Then I would not be able to tear myself away from you and neither one of us would get any governing done ever again, and our kingdoms would surely fall to ruin.” Bard nosed into the crook of his neck, where his jaw met his ear and his pulse beat low like a drum. It was intoxicating, almost more so than Thranduil’s elvish wine that so often robbed him of his senses.

“Tell me about it,” he requested softly.

Thranduil made the noise again, but needier this time, less restrained. He wrapped his arms around Bard tighter, swayed gently as if in time to some seductive elvish waltz. “I would lay you on a bed of silk and soft petals, admire the way they clung to your skin as I made you sweat. I would taste every inch of you, mark you with my teeth, raise gooseflesh with my nails…” Bard’s breath quickened. He leaned his head back against Thranduil’s shoulder, baring his throat. Thranduil obliged and ghosted warm lips up the length of it, murmuring as he went, “I would bend you. I would compose the sweetest of sonnets about the taste of your seed, the velvet heat of your sheath around my sword… I would break you and I would love you until Ilúvatar himself had enough of your screams and your whimpers, and all of Arda knew the way your lips wrap themselves around my name.”

“Thranduil,” he whispered, indulgently, “my lord…” The elvenking’s lips found his and Bard groaned, reaching a hand back to tangle fingers in silver-white locks that fell like the finest silk in a curtain about both their shoulders.

“But you haven’t told me what you think of the tunic,” Thranduil said as he pulled away, thankfully not straying too far for Bard’s liking. Bard stole another kiss.

“I find it slightly irrelevant at this point, I must admit.”

Thranduil scoffed. “I desire an honest opinion,” he said, taking a step backwards and drawing Bard back with him. “Come.”

Bard couldn’t help the grin that followed the double entendre of those words. “If you insist,” he replied, letting the elf-lord walk them both back. He stroked a line across Thranduil’s wrist with his thumb and startled when he was spun around, leaning back to steady himself against Thranduil’s broad chest. He blinked as his eyes met a large mirror, standing from floor to ceiling and etched with intricate elvish designs along the sides.

The tunic Thranduil had dressed him in was… stunning. It was a light tan and heavy, like his old “potato sack,” but made of a buttery suede, lined on the sleeves and down the front with a rich, deep brown leather and a line of gold buttons etched in the same fine detail that all elven clothing seemed to feature. It was, perhaps, a little shorter than his old shirt, as were the sleeves, but they draped open further, and the tunic was more than warm enough.

“There is a belt also, of blue and brown leather that would suit you. I would give it to you now, but I do not wish to go through the trouble only to remove it again so soon.”

“Good thinking,” Bard said, smiling. “This is a fine gift, truly, but I wish to be rid of it now for I have baser desires than fashion at present.”

Thranduil met his eyes in the mirror, and the look he gave Bard was smouldering, the storm in his eyes having broken upon him at last. He could tell Thranduil’s restraint was dwindling, could feel it in the way his hands tensed and fingers dug into the fabric of the tunic, stroking firmly against his stomach. “As do I,” he said softly.

Thranduil let his fingers caress, watching them both in the mirror. He swayed again, gently, and Bard was sure that it was to the rhythm of music he could not hear. Elves were a musical lot. He wished he could hear what it was Thranduil moved them to. “I will bestow upon you more finery later,” the Elvenking whispered, “but for now I wish to take you apart.”

“Yes,” Bard breathed. He slid Thranduil’s hand down his front and let it rest boldly between his legs, giving him a meaningful look in the mirror. “Please.”

Thranduil inhaled sharply and traced the line of him where he strained already against the fabric of his pants, beneath the hem of the new tunic. “Off with these,” he demanded, and from there he was all action, sliding his hands along Bard’s sides and pulling the shirt back over his head. Bard lifted his arms again and, once free of the thing, let it drop to the floor. Thranduil didn’t seem to mind.

His teeth found an exposed shoulder, scraping across skin and smoothing hands back down Bard’s biceps, wrapping fingers around muscle and tracing lines down his arms. “Remove your trousers,” he murmured, and Bard was only too willing to comply.

He undid the leather tie at his waist, nearly fumbling the knot, but his fingers were far too deft at knot-work, and it came undone quickly and easily as he slid the pants down his hips and kicked them off in the wake of his boots. He felt the finery of Thranduil’s robes all the more acutely now, against the bareness of his skin, brushing his back, his buttocks. Thranduil pressed against him and he felt a swell through the silk behind him.

“Look at you,” Thranduil uttered, awe in his voice. “Look at _us._ What a pair we make.”

Bard chuckled. “I should have known you’d like this.”

“What’s not to like?” Thranduil replied, hands smoothing insistently over Bard’s hips, the pane of his stomach, tracing the crest of abdominal muscles and carding through the soft trail of hair that crept down from his chest to his belly and further, to settle in an enticing display around his flushed and straining cock. “I can see what you look like in my arms, see your expressions in the mirror when I do… let’s say, _this.”_ He ran his fingers further down and traced a solid line up the length of Bard’s desire, Bard’s breath catching in his throat. He gripped Thranduil’s arms, watching his reflection. His hips jerked backwards, he breathed a soft curse, and Thranduil chuckled, leaning down to kiss the side of his neck. “I ask again, _what’s not to like?”_

Bard groaned. “You are a beast. Truly. The very worst.”

Thranduil laughed openly at that and spun Bard around to face him, tiring, it seemed, of frivolities and patience. “Then I shall do what beasts do best, and _devour you.”_

Bard exhaled harshly as his back hit the mirror and Thranduil did just that, leaning in and devouring his mouth with a hungry tongue and vicious teeth. It was all he could do to clutch at the king, fingers fisting in his robes as he made helpless noises into his mouth. He was reminded of Thranduil in battle, how passion made the Elvenking into something terrifying and ruthless, intent on victory and domination.

He was much the same in love and Bard was happy to yield to his whims and appetites. He kissed back, trying to match Thranduil’s ardour and finding himself, instead, pushed back harder against the mirror, a still clothed leg coming to rest firmly, threateningly, _possessively,_ between his thighs. He pulled away with a ragged, wet gasp and tilted his head back, grasped Thranduil tighter and tried to blink the stars away.

Thranduil all but snarled and shifted his attentions to Bard’s exposed throat instead. Bard cried out as teeth claimed and scraped, and he very nearly laughed when he realised that the stars he was seeing were not of his own fantasy, but actual stars, visible by some magic in the high, arched ceiling of Thranduil’s rooms.

“The stars,” he breathed on a shaky laugh.

“I shall make you see stars.” Thranduil shed his silken outer robe in one smooth motion, the deep burgundy catching the firelight and the starlight and cutting audibly through the air as it was tossed behind them. Bard’s hands were on the clasps of Thranduil’s collar the moment he found the space to do so, and Thranduil’s lips were back on his, even as he reached up to help his fumbling fingers undo the complex fastenings of his tunic.

There were too many layers. Every time Bard conquered one, it seemed there was another, more complicated piece beneath, until he was groaning in frustration into Thranduil’s kiss, fisting his hands into his sides, wanting to be done with this mad task and simply tear off what was remaining, put his hands on the smooth, perfect skin underneath.

Thranduil chuckled, licked at Bard’s lips and stepped back, hands taking the task upon themselves and eyes locked and burning into Bard’s as he slowly stripped, removing the rest of his clothing in a tantalising, teasing display. Bard groaned again at the first glimpse of pale, star-kissed skin. Thranduil’s jewelled fingers caressed his own flesh, the hollow of his throat, trailing down to reveal his sternum, inch after inch until his shirt fell away just enough to reveal two dusky nipples, set like a work of art against taut muscle, a perfectly well-defined chest.

Bard’s mouth fell open, his breath uneven and ragged already. He kept his eyes on Thranduil, but reached down and took himself in hand, stroking slowly, in time to the show before him, the steady decline of Thranduil’s fingers.

Thranduil smirked, licked his lips. His undershirt fell away as his hands reached his hips, sliding beneath the band of his leggings, teasing one corner down his hips before, maddeningly, drawing it back up again.

Bard panted, gripped himself tighter, painfully so. “Please,” he breathed, “my lord…” He knew how those words could make Thranduil so quickly come undone.

Just as expected, Thranduil made short work of his clothing after that. He slid his leggings the rest of the way down his long legs, kicking his boots off, and crooked a finger at Bard, eyes dark and clouded with lust and command.

Bard didn’t need to be told twice. He strode forward , sure, confident steps ,and dropped easily to his knees before the elven lord, one hand reaching up to touch all of him he could reach, committing to memory the dips of muscle, the swell of bone and the smooth cool feel of his skin beneath his fingers. In his other hand, he gripped Thranduil where he rose up to meet his lips, swollen and turgid, so thick and perfectly formed, and ran his tongue in a solid line from the base of him to the very tip.

Thranduil breathed sharply above him and slid those jewelled fingers into his hair, gentle still, though he knew that wouldn’t last. Bard was good at this.

He used his own fingers to expose the dark, sensitive crown of Thranduil’s cock, settling his mouth over it and hollowing his cheeks, using his tongue to caress and stroke until Thranduil jerked and cursed above him, breath uneven, muscles tightening in his hips, under Bard’s hand.

He settled into a slow, yet thorough pace after that, swallowing Thranduil down until it was uncomfortable, then back up, applying himself to pleasure and sensation until Thranduil came undone.

Ragged, gasping breaths, and then, “ _Nan ear elin_ … You look…” His voice broke off into a low moan and Bard pulled away, lips wet, a slick string connecting them to Thranduil still. He licked it away without shame and looked up, noticed the way Thranduil’s eyes were locked on the mirror behind them.

He followed that gaze and peered over his shoulder, saw the way his hair clung to his shoulders, already damp from perspiration, the thick muscles of his back, the way his buttocks tensed as he shifted, his toes pressed against the floor. His knees were probably red already. And Thranduil’s expression was one of wonder, and desire, his fingers tight in Bard’s hair. He reached down with his other hand and stroked fingers along Bard’s jaw, traced his lips sweetly. Bard took his wrist in his hand and kissed those fingers, scraped teeth gently over them and licked teasingly in the crooks between them.

Thranduil’s breath faltered. “I want you now,” he said, low and quiet. “Back against the mirror. Wait for me.”

Bard got to his feet, knees protesting the sudden movement even as they rejoiced that they were no longer pressed against the floor, and he backed up until he felt the cool glass against his skin again, refreshing and soothing. He let his head fall back, watched Thranduil move about the room through hooded eyes as he slid his hands down to his thighs, stroking fingers down and nails back up, avoiding his cock, the way it jutted proud and demanding from a bed of dark curls. He arched his back and allowed a deep breath to push his chest to expand and fall.

Thranduil was on him again in but a moment, licking back into his mouth and touching him reverently, desperately. Bard slid his hands around to grip him tightly beneath the buttocks, pushing him closer and kneading the flesh of him like clay, digging fingers in between his legs and arching up against him, rutting very nearly like an animal.

Thranduil bit at his lips, pushed back into his movement. Bard heard the pop of a cork and the rich scent of a woodsy, sweet oil permeated the air. Bard panted. He knew what was next.

“Lift your leg up,” Thranduil ordered, and Bard complied, hooking his right leg around Thranduil’s. Lips were on his neck as the first touch of skin-warmed oil touched his thigh. He licked his lips in anticipation and offered more of his throat to Thranduil’s hungry mouth.

“Yes,” he said aloud, “please.”

The first breach was easy, as it always was. Thranduil’s teeth distracted him as the second breach stretched him further, a light burn spreading through his blood, his muscles tight even as he willed himself to relax. The third breach elicited a sharp gasp, and his fingers tightened their hold on Thranduil’s arm and his hair, at the back of his head.

“Shh,” Thranduil soothed. “You’re doing very well, _meleth nín, ind nín… callon nín.”_

Bard understood little Sindarin still, but was comforted by the sweet endearments Thranduil whispered in his ear. He caught the word _love,_ and repeated it back; using the little Silvan he had learned. “ _Dhe Melin_ , ah,” he arched at the stretch of Thranduil’s fingers. “I love you, _please.”_

Thranduil trembled against him, made a small noise of want and kissed his neck with such adoration that Bard had to close his eyes against the wave of emotion that passed over him. Thranduil withdrew his fingers and gripped Bard by the hips, sliding his hand down to Bard’s left thigh. He pressed against it, and Bard caught his wordless request, lifting that leg to hook around Thranduil’s waist as well. Thranduil held him tight and secure, using a strength Bard _knew_ he possessed, that he had seen him use to its fullest, yet somehow still surprised him. Bard held his arms around Thranduil’s neck, sliding fingers into his hair and tilting his head to kiss him again as he felt the shift of Thranduil slicking himself and settling against him, hot and hard and pressing firm, waiting only for Bard to give his approval.

This he did without a moment’s hesitation, a simple nod, opening his mouth against Thranduil’s and catching his unsteady exhale, feeding it back to him as he pushed ever so slowly _in._

“Ah,” he cried softly, and Thranduil kissed him even more tenderly, resting only minutely inside of him. He rocked gently against him, pushing in only fractions of a breadth each time. Bard was grateful. It didn’t matter how many times they did this, it still took him more time than he liked to admit to get used to it, to steel himself to the burn and the stretch of it. His thighs tightened around Thranduil and he whispered urgently against his lips, “easy…”

“Anything you desire,” Thranduil replied, breathless. It was always like this, the moment they collided, merged into one. No matter the clawing, biting, or brutal passion they had shared only moments before, there was something beatific about this moment, something nearly divine. They were Beren and Lúthien, a man and an elf, bound together by a love that was both fierce and gentle; soft as starlight, and wild as the howling gale.

Bard gasped as he rocked against Thranduil, sinking further, feeling his lover deeper within him. He was starting to get accustomed to the stretch. “Slow,” he warned. For now.

Thranduil unsheathed himself almost fully, then pushed back in, only half of the way, rocking in and out in a slow slide. On perhaps the fifth slide in, the angle changed in an impossibly perfect way and Bard felt sparks light up behind his eyes, embers flaring in his belly and lightning up his spine. He arched, and in so doing sank the rest of the way down Thranduil, impaling himself fully. “Ah!” he shouted, gripping tighter with his hands and his legs, “Thranduil! Now, I need you now!”

“ _Anything,”_ he breathed again, and it was as if a dam broke and all at once Thranduil rushed over him like the tide. He cried out as he was pressed hard against the glass, Thranduil canting his hips and pushing into him, starting a rhythm that was akin to that which he moved them to before, when they swayed together in tandem to the music only Thranduil could hear; only this was faster, a crescendo. Bard imagined he could hear it now.

He could hardly focus on the lips kissing him, his breath leaving him in ragged gasps. He let Thranduil lead him in this dance, swept away in the intensity of it. A knot tightened in his gut, an almost painful ache, and his cock begged for more than the teasing friction it found against Thranduil’s stomach.

He reached for it, slipping a hand between them and fisting it tightly. He cried out again, louder and more urgently, and Thranduil nudged his chin with his own, touching lips to his and breathing into him, eyes locked with his. He said nothing, but the intensity in his gaze spoke for him. _Come for me,_ it said, _come undone._

He did.

One firm stroke was all it took, and Bard was shouting, arching against Thranduil as his muscles pulsed in time to the beating of his heart and his seed shot between them, painting their bellies. He gasped, ragged and spent, a shiver stealing up his spine as the last of the contractions passed and he slumped against the mirror.

Thranduil kissed him then, his slack lips, the corner of his mouth, his jaw and all along his neck. He lasted only a few more moments before gasping himself. Bard felt the tightening of his abdominal muscles against him and held him tight, fingers carding through his silken hair soothingly as he shook and keened his way through his orgasm, the intensity of it nearly making him sob. Bard kissed his temple, whispered to him of his beauty, of the love he inspired in him.

They both still breathed heavily when Thranduil extricated himself, set Bard carefully down. They stood on shaky legs and Thranduil kissed him gently, cupping his jaw with trembling fingers. “Bed,” he breathed, and Bard was only too happy to comply, taking his hand and following him, ignoring the sharp ache in his thighs and the way he felt the slickness of Thranduil’s seed creeping down his leg. They could clean up later, take a long, warm bath with fragrant oil and lingering kisses. First, sleep.

 

~*~

 

Bard awoke to the sound of a crackling fire and a foul scent. He wrinkled his nose and cracked his eyes open. He shifted his legs, wincing at the way his muscles ached, though he noticed that he no longer felt sticky. Thranduil must have cleaned him up sometime while he dozed.

Speaking of Thranduil…

“What in the world are you doing,” he asked, sitting up and grimacing at the scent of burning hair, or something equally foul. Thranduil, clothed minimally with his burgundy over-robe loosely around his shoulders, turned around from where he stood, facing the hearth in the corner of the room. As he turned, Bard was able to make out the charred outline of his old tunic from amid the flames, sending black, ugly smoke curling out and framing Thranduil’s bored look of disgust. “Stop that!” he called, anger stealing over him as he threw the covers aside and made to stand, to march over there and tell Thranduil exactly how absurd he was being-

Except that the instant he stood, his thighs quivered and gave out on him, and with a surprised yelp, he fell in a heap to the floor.

He stayed there for a moment, the indignity of it burning across his cheeks, but somehow failing to be surprised at this turn of events. He looked up to see the pooling train of Thranduil’s robes inches from his face and frowned up at the elf. Thranduil smirked.

“You really are the worst,” he mumbled. “Honestly.”

Thranduil extended his hand. “Get up off the floor, Dragon-slayer, and come bathe with me. I fear you’ve made us both smell like burning potato-sack.”

Bard gaped. “ ** _I_** made us…?” He shook his head incredulously but took the offered hand anyway, sighing in the resignation of the long-suffering. He really had liked that tunic.

Perhaps he would find another one, just for the reaction it incited in the Elvenking. Perhaps.

**Author's Note:**

> Translations:
> 
>  
> 
> Eryn Galen: "Greenwood the Great," in Sindarin. This is what Mirkwood was referred to before it became known as Mirkwood. Thranduil's still bitter about that.
> 
> Nan ear elin: "By the stars," Sindarin.
> 
> Meleth nín: "My love," Sindarin.
> 
> Ind nín: "My heart," Sindarin.
> 
> Callon nín: "My hero," Sindarin.
> 
> Dhe Melin: "I love you," Silvan dialect.  
> Note on this one: For those only familiar with the movie-verse, Mirkwood was actually comprised initially, of mostly Silvan elves, like Tauriel and Legolas. When Oropher and Thranduil settled there, they, both Sindar elves, merged their culture with the Silvan- or Wood-elves, and actually adopted much of their language as well. There's some debate on how much of the language spoken in Mirkwood remained Silvan by the end of the Third Age, but as the Sindar population seemed to have dwindled more than flourished, I'm going to assume there is still a great deal of Silvan spoken there. "Lowly Silvan Elf," my ass. Mirkwood is MOSTLY Silvan.  
> That being said, there's not much information on the Silvan language as it was never seemingly developed as much. This phrase is only very slightly different from the Sindarin anyways, but it might not be entirely correct. It seems to be the formal form, but I can only find formal Silvan, for some reason. If anyone has any better resources or wants to correct anything they see wrong here, feel free to do so!


End file.
